Break Point
by Neon Genesis
Summary: In tennis, your goal is to break your opponent. Yukimura Seiichi is very, very good at it. Putting someone back together, he finds, is a bit more challenging. YukimuraOC.
1. Cut Out All the Ropes and Let Me Fall

Author's Note: Break point is when you're a point away from losing your serve. It's very bad.

* * *

**Break Point**

_(Can't leave it behind you_

_Everything you were_

_You wanna be someone new)_

In the beginning, there was a boy.

(There was also a girl, a little girl whose whole life would have been different had it not been for that boy, that boy who'd begun everything the day that it was supposed to end, but—

But really, there was just the boy.)

~x~

Anna's first thought, upon stepping foot on Rikkaidai High School's main campus, was that the school was big.

Her second was that she was about to throw up.

She hadn't eaten breakfast that morning to avoid expressly that, though, so while she had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek, she did not actually spew vomit all over the dignified gray flagstones.

Though that would have been one hell of a first impression.

Anna smiled grimly to herself. Who was she kidding? These people already had their impressions of her, their opinions. More than that, they knew the _truth _of her, what she was. A loser, a failure. An embarrassment to her nation.

"Hasegawa-kun, how do you feel about returning to Japan?"

"Do you have any comments about your results at the Australian Open?"

"Have you _really _retired for good, Hasegawa-kun?"

"Rumor has it that you're still in the draw for the French Open!"

Reporters were clustered around the school gates, snapping photos. She'd forgotten about them, so anxious was she about the other students. But she'd come to school very early; only a handful of kids were on the grounds. They eyed the spectacle she made, but did not stop to stare. They had places to go.

Places they belonged.

"Come along, Hasegawa-kun," the headmaster urged, touching her shoulder carefully. She flinched. "Let's get you inside, away from all this." He placed himself between her and the newspeople.

She wanted to tell him that the reporters, their questions, the flash of their cameras, those things didn't bother her anymore. She was more daunted by the looming buildings before her, the ones that would soon fill with other students in their crisp maroon and black uniforms, other students that knew one another.

Other students that didn't know her, but knew _of _her. Knew every damning thing.

She almost turned and fled. But where would she go? The apartment her family had moved into only three days ago? The tennis academy, back in Florida? How about the hotel room in Melbourne? Paris, New York, Miami.

_I have to go back._

_I can't go back._

~x~

That boy. The one from the beginning? His name was Yukimura Seiichi.

(And she hated him, oh God how she hated him, except she adored him too, adored him becaue he was everything she wasn't.

Hated him because that was the case.)

~x~

"Welcome to Rikkaidai, Hasegawa-kun. Please come up and introduce yourself to the class."

Anna could not breathe.

He was here. He was _here_, in her class, or rather, she was in his. 3-C. She'd known he attended Rikkaidai—stalkerish though it was, he was why she'd chosen the school—but hadn't suspected she'd have to face him first thing Monday morning.

Yukimura Seiichi. _Yukimura Seiichi._

Oh, God.

"… Hasegawa-kun? Are you all right? Did you hear me?" And suddenly the teacher was in her face, peering concernedly.

Anna jerked back. Her chair scraped loudly against the tile floor; the sound hung in the air. "… Um." She swallowed hard, stood up, wiping clammy hands on her black pleated skirt. "I, I'm. My name is—"

"Up front, dear." The teacher, Ishii-sensei, pursed her lips. They were bright red. Snow White's lips. "Please stand in front of the class so that we can all see and hear you."

Anna hunched her shoulders and did as instructed. She looked down, avoiding eye-contact and counting every step. One, two, three… (Love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty, she was losing, losing, losing—) She reached her destination, turned and stared fixedly at the far wall. Cinderblock.

They were all staring. _He _was staring.

She took a breath. "Mynameis—" Her voice cracked. "My name is Hasegawa Anna."

There. She'd done it.

But Ishii-sensei was gesturing. _Go on, go on. Continue. _Anna's mouth worked. Continue and say what? An uncomfortable moment passed, before Ishii-sensei prompted gently, "Where are you from?"

Anna blinked once, twice. "I… I'm from…"

_Where am I from?_

Hotel rooms. Hotel rooms and foreign cities and tennis courts surrounded by roaring crowds. Before that, from Florida. The Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy. And before that?

She snuck a glance at Yukimura. His face had lost its baby fat; his eyes were blue as ever. "I guess… I'm from around here. Originally."

(In the beginning, there was a boy. But there was also a girl.)

Ishii-sensei smiled encouragingly. _Good, good. The girl's not _completely _thick in the head. _"And your hobbies? What do you like to do?"

Anna froze. _She's making fun of me. She's got to be making fun of me. What do I like to do? What sort of question is that? What can I possibly say?_

Helpless, miserable laughter bubbled up in her. She fought it back enough to say, "I play tennis."

Ishii-sensei's smile became somewhat strained. The other students began whispering. "Oh, yes," she said, shushing them. "Yes, we've heard all about your success." _Success. _Hah. What bullshit. "You must really love tennis, Hasegawa-kun. Don't you?"

(And she remembered a day nearly ten years before, a bright sure voice saying, _Don't quit. Play with me._)

Somehow, Anna found the strength to look straight at Yukimura. "Actually," she said quietly, and wondered if this was how it felt to tell the truth, "I hate tennis."

~x~

"Is it true that Hasegawa Anna walked into your homeroom and challenged you to a tennis match?"

"Hardly," Yukimura replied dryly, pulling his jersey over his head. "Don't believe everything you hear, Akaya. And change quickly. Practice begins in five minutes."

"You'll run five extra laps for each minute that you're late," added Sanada, already dressed and lacing up his shoes.

"I'm not going to _be _late," Kirihara grumbled, but hurried to his locker. All the other regulars were already present. Niou and Yagyuu were talking quietly, while Marui hummed to himself and Jackal secured his wrist-weights. Yanagi was checking his racquet strings.

"So what _did _happen?" the second-year ace wanted to know, grappling with his tie. "She _is _in your class, I know that, and people keep saying stuff about you and her. Did _you _challenge _her _to a match? You could take her, buchou, for sure. Even if she is a French Open semifinalist."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence." Yukimura kept his tone wry, knowing how much it irked the younger boy. "But no one challenged anyone." He frowned, just the slightest bit. "She just… she only looked at me for a moment. That's all."

Niou smirked, but it was Marui who teased, "You are just _such _a catch, aren't you? Jesus, Yukimura, leave some girls for the rest of us."

_It's not that, _Yukimura almost said. There'd been nothing like that in Hasegawa's gaze. He almost told them, then, about the tennis club all those years ago, but Jackal pulled a copy of _Pro Tennis Monthly _from his bag, tossed it on one of the benches.

"There's actually an article about her in yesterday's issue," the dark-skinned boy said conversationally. "My subscription ran out, but I picked this one up at a newsstand because it also has the piece about which teams are predicted to make it to Nationals this year."

It went without saying that Rikkaidai was among them.

Kirihara snatched up the magazine, flipped to the correct page, and read aloud. "'How many people can say they retired from their career at seventeen years of age? Japan's own Hasegawa Anna can.

"'Long touted as Japan's best hope on the professional tennis scene, Hasegawa, a pupil of the prestigious Nick Bollettieri Tennis Academy, launched her career two years ago by qualifying for the U.S. Open. She lost in the first round to the number thirteen seed, but her performance promised great things to come.

"'She moved up steadily through the rankings, relying on her excellent forehand, footwork, and serve. She posted her best results at last year's French Open, reaching the semifinals and achieving a career-high ranking of number nine in the world. But things went downhill from there for the then-sixteen-year-old.

"'She had an appallingly poor grass-court season, losing all six matches she played on the surface. She fared better on the hard courts, winning in Cincinnati and making it to the U.S. Open round of sixteen before being knocked out in straight sets.

"'That third round at Flushing Meadows was her last victory. From then on, she played little and achieved even less, only making it into this year's Australian Open as a wildcard. The opportunity was wasted on her. Hasegawa played abysmally—she didn't win a single game!—and skipped the post-match press conference, instead boarding the first flight back to the U.S.

"'Days later, her retirement was officially announced. Despite a minor media frenzy, the girl in question made no appearances or statements. The latest news fit to print is that she and her parents have returned to the Kanagawa region, and that Hasegawa will attend Rikkadai High School, famed for its tennis teams.

"'Does the former pro plan to downgrade to the high school circuit?'"

"I'm impressed," drawled Niou, tucking his racquet under his arm as he made his way to the locker room door, Yagyuu and Jackal following.

Kirihara's eyebrows drew together. "That the girls' team might have a former pro playing for them?"

"That you can read."

The second-year went after him, slinging insults, and Marui, laughing, trailed after him. When the door shut on the loud group, Yukimura picked up the magazine from where Kirihara had dropped it on the floor. Accompanying the article was a photo of Hasegawa. It'd been taken right after her French Open quarterfinals victory.

Her arms were raised, accepting the fans' applause. Pieces of her long dark hair had escaped from her ponytail, stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her dark eyes were lit with—triumph? Happiness?

Relief.

She looked quite different than the girl who'd stood before the class that morning, with her quick darting glances and nervous hands. And neither girl, the victorious one from the picture or the anxious one from a couple hours before, looked like the girl he'd met…

Had it been eight years ago? Nine? Ten?

"Seiichi?" Yanagi hovered by the door, Sanada beside him. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Yukimura said, and placed the magazine, still open to the article on Hasegawa, back on the bench. He picked up his racquet, approached his friends. "Nothing's wrong."

~x~

"Move your feet!" a girl shouted, cranking up the pace of the ball-machine. The girl on the the other side of the net hastened to do as bid.

But Anna, watching, stood motionless, frozen. _Move your feet. Watch the ball. Come on, come on, faster, harder, for God's sakes, Anna, you've got to try, to _fight _for it, what's going on out there, you're falling apart, faster faster hit the goddamned ball love-fifteen love-thirty love-forty—_

"Hasegawa-san, are you all right?"

She whirled. Stared. "Yu—… Yukimura-san. I. I just…"

He tilted his head. How could such a tiny motion encompass such grace? "Are you lost? Finding your way around campus must be difficult on your first day."

"I," she said. "No, I… I'm not lost."

His eyebrows rose fractionally. Slowly, he turned to look at the girls' courts, then back at her. "… So you meant to come here?"

Had she? Vehemently, she shook her head. "No," she told him. "No, definitely not."

At that, he may have been a little frustrated by her short, incongruous answers. It was hard to tell, though. His face might as well have been a porcelain opera mask. "Well," he said, and paused. "I suppose I'll see you in class tomorrow, then."

He turned to enter the courts. She wanted to run after him, to snatch at his sleeve. She wanted to turn and run _away_ from him, away from this place and these people and most especially him. But she'd already run away, hadn't she? Run away to come here. There was nowhere left to run.

She said, "Wait."

He slowed. "Yes?"

Her lips parted. Could she say it? Did she dare? Dredge up those memories, confess to the huge role he'd played in her life? To how she felt about him? He probably didn't even remember her. No recognition was present in his expression.

She deflated. Gave up. Once a quitter, always a quitter. "Nothing," she said. "It's nothing."

~x~

"So," said Miyamoto Hinano casually, "would you like to tell me why Hasegawa Anna is standing outside my courts?"

Another person might have shrugged. Yukimura only gestured vaguely. "I don't know, and I doubt she does, either. I spoke to her for a moment—she said she wasn't lost, but that she didn't mean to come here. She certainly seemed lost."

Otsuka Rina, passing by, overheard, and crossed her arms. "You don't think she actually means to join the team, do you?"

Yukimura did not reply, but Miyamoto grinned. "Wouldn't that be something? She was ranked ninth in the world at one point. To have her on our team…"

"No," said Otsuka firmly, throwing up her hands. Her fingernails sported a perfect French manicure. "No, no, no, absolutely and unequivocably no! God, Hinano, not another one of your ideas. We don't need Hasegawa. She's more trouble than she's worth."

"Are you kidding? I _know _you watched her French Open matches last year! She was fantastic. Can you imagine us showing up to play Hyotei with Hasegawa Anna in our lineup?" Her grin sharpened. "The _look _on Tamura's face…"

"That backstabbing bitch," said Otsuka automatically, before shaking her head. Not a single brown hair strayed from her bun. "But so what if she played great then? She's terrible _now_. Any one of our first-year sub-regulars could have played better than she did in the Australian Open."

"I'm inclined to agree with Otsuka," said Yukimura to Miyamoto. Calmly, he went on, "Tennis is a mental game, and Hasegawa's mentally broken. She's burned out. It doesn't matter how much potential she once had. Her mind will fail her, and if she were on your team, she'd fail you."

That should have been the end of the matter. Failure was unacceptable. Failure went against the Law. And Yukimura, though of course not in charge of the girls' team, was someone whose opinion typically went undisputed by both captain and vice-captain.

"But Tamura," said Miyamoto simply. Her grin was gone, her gaze hard, even. "She's told Hyotei everything about us. Every strength and weakness, every strategy and statistic. Sure, we've altered our practices since she left, but you can't change the dynamic of a team, not so quickly."

"The situation with Tamura is unfortunate," acknowledged Yukimura. In his hands were the supply forms he'd come to get from them. "But I don't know that it's one that Hasegawa could remedy."

"Just having her as a reserve would give us an edge." Miyamoto's grin returned, flickered around the corners of her mouth. "Tamura's got nothing on her except whatever she might have gleaned from watching the televised matches. And how intimidated would you be if you knew you might have to play a former pro?"

Yukimura raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, maybe not _you_," Miyamoto conceded, "but normal people. Normal people would freak out."

"You've already made up your mind about this," sighed Otsuka. "Haven't you."

Miyamoto stretched her arms over her head. "All I know," she said airily, "is that I am required to accept the registration papers of students who enrolled here too late to meet the general deadline. Where's the harm in that?" She strolled over to where Hasegawa stood.

Otsuka wrinkled her nose. "She doesn't listen to me." She glanced at Yukimura. "But she'd listen to _you_, if you really impressed upon her what a bad idea this is."

Yukimura was watching Miyamoto approach Hasegawa. "Team decisions are to be made by the captain," he responded. His expression was distant, but his voice resolute. "I would not allow Miyamoto to interfere with my team, and I won't interfere with hers. She'll lead how she sees fit."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

~x~

"Hi there." A girl came up to Anna. She had blue-black hair and a gleam in her green eyes. Anna knew that look, dreaded it. "I'm Miyamoto Hinano, the captain of the girls' team. I know who you are, of course. Would love to play you sometime."

Anna's stomach dropped. She'd been right. This girl wanted a match. Oh, God. What had she been _thinking_, coming here? "Maybe," she said quickly. A hasty nothing of a word.

Miyamoto didn't seem offended. "So here's the thing," she said conversationally, folding her arms. "Reliable sources have assured me that you would be a liability to have in the lineup. But what kind of a captain would I be if a former pro dropped out of the sky and I didn't take advantage of the opportunity?"

Anna's hands began to sweat. "I don't want to play tennis."

She heard the voice again, heard him saying, _Don't quit. Play with me._ He was right over there, watching. She tried not to notice, but it was like trying to ignore the Florida sun high in the sky, baking the tennis academy's outdoor courts, burning her pale skin.

"Then why are you here?"

Anna closed her eyes. She could feel a racquet in her hands, could hear the rush of a hundred-and-seven mile-per-hour serve rocketing toward her. Could see the white lines boxing her in, laying out her whole world in a grid of hit-it don't-hit-it, you-win you-lose lose lose.

"Tennis," she said simply. She could still feel the sunburn of Yukimura's gaze on her. "It's all I know how to do."

~x~

Later, she went home. Or, rather, to the apartment her parents had put down a deposit on that awful afternoon in Melbourne, when they'd been waiting for their flight to Miami. She remembered her own broken, strangled sobs, the pleas she'd voiced in front of all those strangers. God, the shame.

_"I'm done I can't I j-just I _quit _I can't do it anymore I really just c-can't oh God I'm sorry I am so so s-sorry but can we p-please just stop? I'm done, I'm done, I can't d-do it anymore I just can't can we please go home? I just—I just—I _can't_. I quit. Please, Mommy, can't we just go home?"_

She hadn't known exactly what "home" she had in mind.

Anna climbed the stairs up to the fifth floor of the building and made two circuits before finally remembering what apartment number they were. She was fumbling with her key and swearing under her breath when her mother opened the door, ushered her inside.

Hollowly, Anna said, "I'm home."

"Welcome home, honey." Her mother hovered hearby as Anna removed her shoes. "How was school? It ended over an hour ago, didn't it? Does that mean you stayed later? Did you make any friends?"

_No. I'm too self-conscious to talk to people, too paranoid of all the whispers. Too humiliated that they all know what a loser I am._

"Maybe," said Anna. The nothing-word did not escape her mother. "I'm just. I'm going to go lie down, okay? I'm… tired."

"All right." Her mother smiled, a quick strained thing. "I'll call you when dinner's ready." She paused. "It's nice that we're all living together like a family again. Isn't it?"

"Yeah." Anna couldn't smile. "Yeah, it is." Ducking her head, she hurried into her small bedroom. Bed, desk, dresser. White walls, no posters or decorations. It may as well have been just another hotel room. She pulled a binder out of her bag, took out a stapled set of papers. They read GIRLS' TENNIS CLUB REGISTRATION FORMS.

Anna looked at them. Stared, swallowed, paced. Picked up a pen, put it down. Shoved the papers in her wastebasket, retrieved them and smoothed them out. She rooted around in the back of her closet, found a blue Babolat bag. Inside were four racquets, their grips worn and dirty.

She held the yellow racquet, the one she'd won the French Open quarterfinals with. The one she'd lost the first round of the Australian Open with. Turning it over in her hands, she bit down hard on her lower lip.

_I can't do this anymore. This has to be the end._

_I'm not ready for it to be the end._

~x~

In the beginning, there was a boy who loved tennis and a girl who hated it.

The end had not yet come, but the situation was still much the same.

* * *

Did not intend to share this story for fear of Mary Sue alerts. Luckily or not, Kasey went ahead and posted it. So.

Inspired by Andre Agassi's autobiography _Open_. A truly, truly amazing read.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis _or Green River Ordinance's "Brother" (lyrics at the top).


	2. I'm Not the One Who Broke You

Author's Note: Everybody cheer for Andy Murray! Wimbledonnnnn.

* * *

**Break Point**

_(Everybody's waiting for you to break down_

_Everybody's watching to see the fallout_

_Even when you're sleeping, sleeping)_

Anna could not sleep that night.

Over the last two years of her life, she'd lain awake in hotel rooms all over the world, fretting about the next day's match, the struggle just to survive another round, to continue marching blindly toward higher stakes, tougher opponents.

What excuse did she have now?

Still, sleeplessness was at least familiar when so much was not. Rising from her bed, she slipped on athletic shorts and her favorite black jacket. Carrying her running shoes in one hand, she took her phone and key and crept out of the apartment, having already left a note on the kitchen counter.

_Couldn't sleep._

_Love, Anna._

That was all she needed to write.

It was just after six a.m., the sunrise still only an idea, a possibility, not yet a reality. Perhaps she should have been afraid, out alone in an unfamiliar place while it was still dark, but of one thing she was sure: she could outrun nearly anyone.

Her legs were long and strong, easily finding rhythm, speeding up, warming up. She passed people letting their dogs out, taking their trash to the curb, preparing to open for business. Before the break of dawn, the world was most united in its routines. She could have been in Berlin. She could have been in Shanghai.

She ran right by the public school, but paused outside Rikkaidai's gates, jogging in place. Students wearing their team uniforms were trickling in, yawning and clutching energy drinks. She slipped inside with them, keeping her head low, though no one paid her one whit of attention.

Running around the grounds, she saw people on the track, the soccer fields, the baseball pitch. Rikkaidai reminded her of a beehive, and not just because of the yellow and black uniforms. Every student knew where to go, what to do. They were part of something larger, greater.

For a girl whose life had been centered around a game where the only person out there with her was on the other side of the net, looking to destroy her, it was a strange notion, strange and somehow hurtful.

She sprinted past the girls' courts for fear that Miyamoto would flag her down, inquire after the registration papers that sat neglected on her desk. Making it to the boys' courts, though, she slowed, then stopped completely, barely registering her own inertia.

Yukimura was playing against that tall, square-shouldered boy, the one whose frown marred all the photos in the tennis team trophy-case. They were only warming up, but…

But in all her time on the professional tour, all the classic matches and players she'd watched and studied, she'd never seen anyone play like Yukimura.

He made tennis beautiful.

The grace with which he moved around the court, the way he made it his domain. This was his game and they were playing by his rules, and he knew that, gloried in it, his lips curving and his eyes dancing and the sun rising, rising, rising behind him.

This was it. What'd she'd reached for, suffered for. This was _tennis_.

Yukimura made it seem possible, attainable. The way you could reach out and seem to hold the moon in your hand, so too did he make you believe you could achieve something higher, greater, just reach for it, go on, stick out your hand and _reach_.

She closed her eyes. No. He'd fooled her like this long ago, put her under this spell. In exactly this way, he had bewitched her. Her loneliness, her failure, the wasted years—all these things were _his _fault, or at least led back to him.

The set ended, punctuated by Yukimura's ringing laughter. The boys clasped hands briefly, before the other one marched off, barking orders at the rows upon rows of club members practicing their swings. The militaristic, mechanical synchronicity of the exercise was disconcerting in teenage boys.

Yukimura stood there for a moment, sipping from his water bottle. Then he looked up. "Hasegawa-san," he called, his soft voice clear across the distance, and still containing a trace of laughter. "Hello."

Her breath caught. _Hello._ The word that had begun everything. "You remember," she choked out, moving toward him, skidding downhill. "Please, don't you—don't you remember?"

~x~

_Ten Years Earlier_

_"Please reconsider," the coach insisted, "I know the training is tough, it can be difficult for the children, it's true, but your daughter, she's got a gift, more potential than nearly anyone I've seen, it would be such a shame to waste it, won't you just—"_

_"I'm sorry," said Anna's mother firmly, "but she's made up her mind. Anna's tired of tennis. All the stress and pressure, it's getting to her, affecting her schoolwork. Her teachers tell me she's weary, distracted. Tennis is just not good for her."_

_The coach started talking again, reassuring, cajoling, but Anna wasn't listening anymore. She let go of her mother's hand and wandered away, past the locker she'd already removed her things from, past the court on which she'd spent hours and hours practicing her forehand. Bounce, hit, wrap. Bounce, hit, wrap._

_Tennis was hard. Tennis was no fun anymore._

_But there, there on the adjacent court—there was a boy. He was her age, hitting against a ball-machine, his smile hard-edged, as if he honestly believed he could beat the machine, wear it down, break it._

_And you know what? She believed in him, too. He played with the skill of an adult and the enthusiasm of a child, his strokes perfect, his movement just—just _pretty_, the sort of pretty that had made her interested in tennis in the first place. Smooth and light, like his feet never touched the ground. It was straight out of a fairytale._

_He noticed her, stopped. The last ball shot past him, but he paid it no mind. He'd _allowed _the machine to win. "Hello," he smiled. "My name is Yukimura Seiichi. I've seen you around here before."_

_He had? She blushed, beamed. "Hi. I'm Anna. Hasegawa Anna, I mean."_

_His eyes were blue as the stained glass windows of the church down the street. "Would you like to play?"_

_"Oh," she said, blinking, "oh. No, I—it's just, today. I'm quitting today."_

_His eyebrows drew together. "But why?"_

_"Well," she said. "Well, I… I just…" She couldn't think of a reason, couldn't remember. Why _had _she wanted to quit? This boy, he'd made it clear. Tennis was beautiful. Tennis was fun. Wasn't it? She'd been so sure she never wanted to play again._

_The boy, Seiichi, walked toward her, holding his racquet. "Don't quit," he told her, his head held high. He spoke with the certainty of an adult, of a prince. Smiling at her, he bade, _

_"Play with me."_

~x~

"I do," said Yukimura carefully, considering her. "Yes, I remember you, Hasegawa-san. I'd thought that you didn't remember me."

Anna laughed shortly, unhappily. "Yukimura-san," she said, gesturing anemically with her hands, trying to find a way to make him _understand_. "You… all these years, I… I've been…"

A boy jogged over. "Yukimura-buchou, one of the ball-machines is going crazy, it's either possessed or Niou-senpai did something to it, can you come and—" He finally noticed Anna. "Oh," he said, pushing black curls out of his face. "You. Wanna play a match?"

She stared at him. Yukimura sighed. "Akaya."

"What? I was just asking. Anyway, buchou, can you go and fix it? Sanada-fukubuchou's no good with technology, you know that. He's got a look in his eye like he's just gonna unsheath one of his katanas and hack at the thing."

"I'll only be a moment," said Yukimura. "Tell Sanada to take deep breaths and count to ten." He turned back to Anna. "You were saying, Hasegawa-san?"

She let her hands fall limply to her sides. "It's not," she began, only to stop, for she'd been going to say _It's not important_, but it was. Yet she could not get the words out. "You should go," she said instead, trying to smile like it was no big deal. "I just—yeah. Yeah. You should go. Before the machines rise up against us, I guess."

She ran off before he could reply.

~x~

"Good morning, Hasegawa-kun." Ishii-sensei leaned in conspiratorily, and Anna tried not to shy away. "How was your first day?"

Awful. She was a foreigner here, Japanese by citizenship but nothing else. She didn't know the manga the students talked about, the J-pop, the movies. Couldn't play the traditional instruments in music class. Was thrown by the deference to authority, the formality of interactions.

In America she'd been an outsider. The kids at the tennis academy, they'd made fun of her slanted eyes and poor English. But in time she'd become fluent, and, moreover, accustomed to Western culture, the casualness, the bluntness. By adapting, she'd ruined herself for her native society.

On _and _off the court, she was stuck in a losing-streak.

"It went well, sensei. Thank you for asking."

"I'm glad to hear it," replied Ishii-sensei, though she didn't sound convinced. In the ensuing pause, Anna realized she would have to work on her conversational skills, which meant learning to tell a better lie.

You'd think she'd be adept at it by now, considering all the times she'd smiled and nodded, said _Yes, I'm excited for my match. Yes, I think I can win._

"Listen." Ishii-sensei's hair was cut in an impossibly glossy black bob. "My advice is to join a club. It's easiest to get to know people, to make friends, when you share a common interest. Is there any club you think you might like to join?"

Was there a Washed-Up Tennis Players Support Group? Or would that be aimed at too narrow a population?

When Anna did not immediately respond, Ishii-sensei added casually, "You know, we do have a tennis team."

Oh, for God's sakes.

~x~

Ishii-sensei ended up giving her a list of all Rikkaidai's clubs: horticulture, archery, sewing, culinary, photography… Anna didn't know how to do _any _of it. Idly, she wrote in the margins:

_Things I Actually _Can _Do_:

_1. Worry.  
2. Feel bad for myself.  
3. Get through airport security._

She hadn't the heart to write_ Play tennis._

When the final bell rang, she followed the crush of students out of the building, drifted toward the courts. The sound of tennis balls rebounding off racquet strings was a siren song, the Pied Piper's tune, luring her in, ensnaring her. She was helpless. She was weak.

She didn't know where else to go.

This time, Miyamoto approached her immediately. "Got those papers for me?"

"No," said Anna, averting her gaze. "No, I… I just thought I'd, I don't know, watch. Is that all right?"

"Sure, sure. Watch all you want." Miyamoto jogged back over to her team, led them through a series of stretches, then through twenty-five laps around the courts. A handful of girls stayed consistently ahead of the pack. They were doubtlessly the starters.

When they broke into pairs and began rallying back and forth, Anna saw that she could have beaten them all. As high school players, they were excellent. Brilliant. But from a professional perspective? Their game was incomplete, unpolished, full of holes. There were so many things an opponent could capitalize on.

But Anna was no longer a professional. She could have beaten them at one point, but that point had passed. As she was, any one of the starters would rip her to shreds.

And she'd had quite enough of that. She would never return to that period of her life, that grimness, that stress, _come on, come on, are you even _trying, _what the hell is wrong with you, Anna, for the love of God you've got to get it together out there, come on, come on, please. Just win. Just _win_._

_No, _she told herself. _No. No longer. This has to be the end._

_I'm not ready for it to be the end._

"Hey, Hasegawa," Miyamoto called, one hand cupped to her mouth. Every single girl turned to look at Anna, though none stopped playing. "You wanna hit a little?" She'd posed it as a casual offer, no effort, nothing serious, just a little fun. Tricky, tricky.

Anna swallowed. "That's all right," she called back, her voice cracking a little. She hadn't raised it in God knew how long. "I don't want to interrupt your practice."

"It's no problem at all," Miyamoto replied, grinning a sure, easy grin. "Just for a little while. Show us how it's done." She spread her arms. "Why not?"

Everyone was waiting. Anna knew what they would say. _That Hasegawa girl, she comes to our practices, judges us, but she's too good to play with us. Just stands there feeling superior. What right does she have to do that, when she couldn't even make it on__ the professional tour?_

Oh, she was good. Miyamoto was very, very good.

Anna hated her a little bit.

But what could she do? She couldn't alienate this many people, not when she was already struggling to fit in. Reluctantly, she nodded, and let herself into the court. "Here," Miyamoto said, pulling a racquet from her bag. "Use my spare."

Anna accepted it. The girl who'd been rallying with Miyamoto got off the court, stood watching with the others on the sidelines. Standing on the baseline, a racquet in her hands, Anna thought,

_I belong here._

_I shouldn't be here._

Miyamoto bounced a ball on the ground, hit it right to Anna. The dark-eyed girl did not even have to think about it. She adjusted her stance, put her right arm out for balance, and drew her racquet back, sending the ball rocketing down the line. A screaming winner. A perfect shot.

For just a moment, she felt at peace.

"Wow," one girl whispered. A hushed buzz went through the crowd as if following an electrical current. Anna stiffened. An unspoken rule of tennis was that you did not try to hit a winner right off the feed. It was unfair. It made you look bad.

_I wasn't showing off, _she wanted to tell them. _It's just—this. My body, it did this. I went to school for this, got paid to do this. Tennis is all I am, all I can do, all I'm good at._

The sad part was, she hadn't even been good enough.

"Sorry," she mumbled to Miyamoto, who was silent, her eyebrows raised. "Sorry, I just—" She glanced over her shoulder, took a step back. "I should probably—"

"Don't go." Miyamoto jumped up and down, shook her feet out. Bounced another ball, once, twice, three times. When she looked up, she was grinning. "Stay a while." She tossed the ball in the air, served a monstrous serve.

But Anna was stiff. Anna was shaken. Anna was already broken.

Her return went into the net, as did the next one, and the next. Just like that, she'd fallen into the same old rut, fallen to pieces once again, _hit the ball, Anna, just go for your shots, you can do better than this, stop embarrassing yourself, is this really all you've got, just do better play _better_._

She couldn't. Returning the racquet to Miyamoto, she shook her head, mumbling, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

But she wasn't apologizing to the other girl, not really. She was apologizing to her parents, her coach. To everyone who'd ever believed in her, staked their career in her success, shouldered the burden of her failure.

Perhaps she was even apologizing to herself.

~x~

"What did I tell you?" asked Otsuka, once Hasegawa had disappeared from sight. "She's a trainwreck. An absolute mess." If she felt smug about being proved correct, it did not manifest in her even tone.

Miyamoto's eyes were still on the crest of the hill, where Hasegawa had last been visible. "Yeah, she self-destructed. But that _forehand_. My God."

"And her on-court presence," added Nakano Miu, a doubles specialist. "This wasn't even a match, but—but she _felt _like a pro. You know? Like someone who belongs among the top ten in the world."

"Yay for her," said Otsuka flatly. "Then she can try to go pro again, and leave this team alone. We don't need the distraction."

"I agree with Rina," murmured Ueno Sakura, tucking a strand of softly curling hair behind her ear. "I feel very bad for Hasegawa-chan—she's obviously very troubled—but I don't think there's anything we can do to help her. You can't fix someone that badly rattled, not in time for tournament season."

"I don't think she can be fixed, period," said Yamazaki Yua simply. "It's unfortunate, but as far as tennis goes, Hasegawa's dead in the water. No use even trying to help her."

"So it's agreed, then." Absently, Otsuka tapped out a rhythm with the tip of her toe, _one_ two three, _one_ two three. "Hasegawa can go join the golf team or something."

"Maybe curling," suggested Yamazaki. Other girls began calling out, but Miyamoto held up a hand.

In the ensuing silence, she smiled vaguely. "Let's do some sprints, shall we?"

~x~

For the past two days, Anna had fled the classroom during lunch, trying to escape the condemnation of being the new kid, the one whom no one knew how to approach and who certainly did not know how to approach anyone else. She was as out of her element at school as she'd been on the grass courts of Wimbledon.

The past two years she'd had a private tutor, and before that, at the academy, no one had cared about academics or classmates. Everyone was gearing up for the afternoon matches. Everyone was aiming to go up a rank.

Even as a Japanese girl among a group composed mostly of Americans, she could have won their acceptance eventually. The instructors, however, had had other ideas. They'd singled her out. _Look at Hasegawa, _they'd said, _her forehand, her serve. She'll be the best, no doubt about it. Go ahead and try to beat this girl._

Hard to make friends with a target on your back.

_Alone there and alone here, _she mused, climbing the steps to the roof. _If nothing else, at least I'm consistent. _Reaching the top, she opened the door and peered out. It was normal enough, a flat space enclosed by a chain-link fence. But she smelled—flowers?

_A rooftop garden, _she recalled from Rikkai's informational pamphlets. _Of course._

Around back, sure enough, were flowerbeds. She knew next to nothing about flowers, so her only real impression of the garden was that it was pretty, and colorful, and smelled nice. It was also… peaceful.

Until she saw who else was there.

On a bench sat Yukimura, a spiral notebook on his lap and a mechanical pencil in his hand. He looked up, offered a small, neat smile, explaining, "French essay. I didn't have time to do it after practice yesterday."

"… Oh." She shifted her weight from foot to foot. "I, um—sorry. I'm sorry to bother you. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Not at all," he replied, but his too-pleasant tone said otherwise. She struggled for something to say—dare she reduce herself to commenting on the weather?—but he began writing again, apparently unconcerned by social conventions and niceties.

_Apparently too good for them, _she thought. Which was uncharitable, she knew, but was it unwarranted?

"Hasegawa-san," he said without looking up, "the thing you've been trying to tell me. I don't mean to pry, but whatever it is, now would be as good a time as ever. I'd hate for you to keep struggling so."

Meaning he'd hate to have to endure more of her fumbling attempts.

"You," she said, staring at him. "Yukimura-san, you…"

He looked up, prompted patiently, "I…?"

Just like that, she found the words.

"You said you remember that day. When we met? You told me not to quit tennis." Her voice rose. "_Told _me not to, like you knew what you were talking about, knew better than me. Like you weren't some seven-year-old kid just the same. Well, do you know what?

"That was the worst advice anyone ever gave me, if it can even be called advice. Tennis is—it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me." _And so, by extension, are you. _"Not quitting that day was the worst decison I ever made.

"And so I kind of—kind of hate you. For that."

She stood there across from him, hands at her sides, her chest rising, her cheeks flushed with high emotion. She'd gotten this far. Now to tell him the rest, how much his brief friendship had meant to her, how much faith she'd had in the promise he'd made her. How she'd been so hurt when he didn't keep it.

How awful she felt for not keeping hers.

But Yukimura didn't give her a chance to say all of that. Instead he leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. Slowly, he asked, "That was it?"

_That was it? _As if it were nothing. As if nearly a decade's worth of dedication to a sport she could not stand were some inconsequential matter, some trivial affair he hoped he would not have to further pretend to care about. _Not_, by the expression on his face, that he was even bothering to pretend.

"I," she stumbled, her mouth working, "I… I…"

"Would you like to know what I think?" Yukimura did not wait for her reply. "I think you're using me as a scapegoat. I think you've had ample opportunities to quit tennis, regardless of what some boy told you years ago."

He smiled. It made him appear terribly unkind. "I think you're frustrated and disappointed with yourself for pursuing a career you were not cut out for, and that you're searching for someone to blame other than yourself."

She looked at him, sitting there on that plain wooden bench like it was a throne. Sitting there with that small sharp smile and those stained glass blue eyes, making sure his point hit home, left no doubt that he was right and she was wrong, he was blameless and she a fool.

Still smiling, he asked pleasantly, "Am I right? Hasegawa-san."

Love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty.

Break point.

Choking on tears, Anna spun on her heel and left him there, alone in that rooftoop garden. That was, doubtlessly, what he'd wanted all along.

* * *

Do you know why I could get a new chapter written in four days? Because **asobi seksu** is lovely, and her expectations of this story are far too high.

Thanks to those who reviewed!

I have to leave for work in three minutes gahhhhhh.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis_, or Taylor Swift's "Eyes Open" (lyrics at the top).


	3. We've Got to Move You, Darling

Author's Note: Damn it, Andy Murray. Damn you, sir.

* * *

**Break Point**

_(I can see the weight there in your eyes_

_I can feel the thorn in your side_

_Your knuckles are bruised from a losing fight)_

"Again," said Yukimura.

Marui had been about to fist-bump Jackal. Blinking, he asked, "What?"

"Do the drill again, without any unforced errors this time."

"You've got to be kidding," said the redhead slowly. Jackal only pressed his lips together; the sub-regular pair they'd been playing looked down. "We made, what? Two whole errors in an hour?"

"Three," corrected Yanagi. He stood at the sideline, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Fine, three." Marui flipped his racquet up, caught it. Boys on other courts were staring. He continued cautiously, "I mean, come on, three unforced errors. That's still pretty damn good, I'd say—"

"Is that what you would say?" Yukimura raised his eyebrows. For the benefit of everyone listening in, he let his voice carry. "Because I'd say that those three errors could be made on Seigaku's break points. Those three errors could cost us the National championship." He tilted his head. "Wouldn't you say?"

Marui looked at him for a long moment, his face wiped clean of its usual animation. Yukimura held his gaze, until finally the shorter boy looked away, declaring, "Sure, sure. We're aiming for negative-two errors this time. You got that, Jackal? You're gonna have to carry the team."

They began bickering in their easygoing way, and everyone refocused on what they'd been doing. Yukimura moved on, Yanagi trailing behind him. "You're in a bad mood," murmured the brown-haired boy. No judgment accompanied the observation.

_Of course not_ was on the tip of Yukimura's tongue, but—but this was Renji. "I am," he admitted, stopping to watch a group of first-years practice their overheads.

Yanagi waited.

At length Yukimura went on, "I spoke to Hasegawa Anna during lunch this afternoon. She made some accusations, and I lost my temper with her. I shouldn't have let that happen. It's unacceptable."

"You _are_ human," Yanagi reminded him.

"As if you're one to talk," Yukimura said wryly, before shaking his head. "I suppose I'm just disconcerted by how instinctive it's become, on and off the court. To see a weakness and take advantage of it. To seek out and use what will most hurt the other person."

And she had been hurt. Hasegawa had. He'd seen the color drain from her face, seen her eyes gloss over with unshed tears. She'd gaped at him as if he'd hit her in the stomach.

He'd meant what he'd said, every word. After all these years, she chose to reenter his life and accuse him of ruining _hers_? He would not stand for that, would not let her get away with it just because—

Because what? Because she seemed so sad and vulnerable? Because she'd once been important to him?

It made no difference. He'd meant to hurt her, and he had. He'd won, he supposed, but no one would ever give him a trophy for it. All he'd gotten from this victory was a sense of disquiet that lingered long after Hasegawa had fled the rooftop garden.

~x~

Once practice had ended, Yukimura went to the private tennis club midway between his house and the school. He had to put down the deposit that ensured Rikkai could use at least a few courts on the days when practice got rained out.

The place was only half-full, yet the atmosphere was charged, almost tense. "She's on one of the outdoor courts, in the back," a middle school-age girl said excitedly. "Do you think I could get her autograph?"

"Why would you want it?" her friend asked plainly. "She sucks."

Yukimura knew whom they must be speaking of.

He went through the building and out the back door, which opened onto eight courts laid out in a grid. On the far one, hitting against a bounce-board, was Hasegawa Anna.

She still wore her school uniform, though her blazer and shoes lay in a heap by the sideline. Her tie was askew, her hair wild, her strokes erratic, frantic. Tennis balls littered the court. "How long has she been here?" Yukimura asked one of the people watching.

The boy shrugged, tucking his phone away. He'd taken a picture of the increasingly agitated ex-pro. "At least twenty minutes. That's when I got here."

Yukimura told himself to walk away, to put down his deposit and go home. Yet he could not bring himself to do it. He couldn't even see Hasegawa's face, but it was clear she was falling apart at the seams. And he had to wonder—

_Did I do this to you? Upset you this much?_

Setting down his bag, he stepped through the small crowd of people and the gate in the chain-link fence, latching it behind him. The moment's distraction almost cost him: a tennis ball nearly hit him in the face. There'd been a heavy spin on it, the rub of the rough fibers burning his hand as he caught it.

His first thought was that Hasegawa had aimed at him, but one glance left no doubt that she hadn't even noticed him, had only missed the rebound of the ball off the board. She was bent down, fishing in the crate for another one, her lips moving quickly, soundlessly.

He dropped the ball and moved closer, until he could hear what she was saying under her breath.

"—for the love of God get it together, come on, this is pathetic, Anna, God, you're so pathetic, just play better, for once in your life why can't you just play better, come on, is this really all you've got, get it together out there get it _together_—"

Yukimura stared. Could such a mantra really be on loop in her head while she played?

No wonder she lost. No wonder she quit.

"Hasegawa-san," he called.

She froze. Turned toward him slowly, the words dying on her lips. "Yu—… Yukimura-san. I. I… what are you…?"

"Why do this to yourself?" he asked softly, gesturing to the court, the strewn balls, her disheveled state. "You've retired, Hasegawa-san. Let it go. Just stop." _Just give up. You're not cut out for this. You don't have it in you._

_Tennis holds no future for you._

"I," she said. He was alarmed to see tears well up in her eyes once again. "_Tennis._" She shook her head violently, let out a strangled sob. "I can't, I can't, I'm sorry, I can't, oh God I'm sorry I just c-can't—" She snatched up a ball, bounced it and swung wildly, missed completely. Cried harder, slid to her knees.

Yukimura stood stiffly. People were watching, whispering. How could she let herself break down like this? Had she no shame?

_Get a hold of yourself, _he wanted to tell her sternly, _for God's sakes, get it together. You're embarrassing yourself. Just get it _together_._

But she'd already told herself that, and it had done no good.

And… he felt a pang of guilt, for he knew his harsh words from earlier had been the catalyst for this meltdown. He even felt pity for her, this wreck of a girl with her sweet dark eyes, this girl that seemed so very, very alone.

Even more than that, though, he could not condone her lack of self-control. Could not stand to see such promise go to waste. Could not help but be _angry _that the girl who'd put Japanese tennis back on the map was now on her knees, wailing, unable to hit a simple forehand.

"Again," he said.

He walked over, took her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. She flinched, but he did not let go. She still held her racquet, and he placed his hand over hers, gripped it firmly. He pressed against her back; she was just a breath too tall for her head to fit neatly under his chin.

"Low to high," he said in her ear. She shivered. He made her draw her racquet back, bring it forward slowly, a smooth arcing motion. "Bounce, hit, wrap. Bounce, hit, wrap." He made her do it again and again, and as he did her stockinged feet fell into place, her torso turned accordingly, following long-ingrained patterns.

Her body could play tennis even if her mind could not.

Her tears had long since dried by the time he stepped back, so that when she turned to look at him, the tracks down her cheeks were very faint, as if someone had tried to erase a treasure map. "Yukimura-san…"

"Hasegawa-san," he replied, absently flexing the hand that had held hers. He paused. "You know how to play tennis, Hasegawa-san," he said slowly. "You only…"

She only had to fix the foundation of her game: her belief in herself.

Yukimura did not think she could.

But though he would not lie to her, would tell her this frankly if she asked, his words had harmed her enough for one day. "Bounce, hit, wrap," was all he said, watching the sky turn orange behind her. The crowd had dispersed some time ago.

Hers was the echo of a smile. "Bouce, hit, wrap," she whispered.

~x~

"I thought we'd paint your walls this weekend," said Anna's mother when she got home that evening. On the kitchen table was spread a vast array of paint swatches. "Which color do you like?"

Anna hadn't the heart nor the energy for this right now, really she did not, but her mother looked so hopeful. Anna could not bear to disappoint her. "Um," she said, inspecting the colors. Really, it would be good to paint her walls. Right now they were hospital-white. White like she'd had to wear at Wimbledon.

Her mother moved some swatches toward her. "Blue's still your favorite, isn't it?"

Stained glass blue. Anna shook her head. "Not blue," she said firmly. "Just. Just not blue." She sorted through the colors, discarded the pinks, the purples, paused over the reds. One of them was a reddish-brown, sort of like rust, but warmer, brighter.

Red like the clay of Roland Garros.

And she could feel it, the sun on her bare shoulders, the clay court under her shoes, soft and forgiving, allowing her to slide and skid, steady and sure on her own two feet, working her opponent from the baseline, grinding them down, making them play _her _game, play it her way.

She picked it up, swallowed hard. "This one," she said quietly. "Can it—can it be this one?"

"Oh, honey," said her mother.

~x~

"Hey, Yukimura," drawled a pale-haired boy the next day, "someone's here for you."

Yukimura's voice floated out from inside the clubhouse. "Who?"

The boy lifted a brow, considered Anna. Smirked faintly. "Girl Scout, I'd say." He went back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Anna, blushing, took a step back, then another, wishing she'd never come. What had she been thinking?

Then Yukimura appeared in the doorway. The collar of his jersey was turned partway up, partway down, as if he'd tugged the shirt on in a hurry. His hair was almost rumpled. Almost. "Hasegawa-san." If he was surprised, he did not show it. "Can I help you with something?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "I… I just. I want to apologize for… yesterday. I didn't, well. I didn't mean to—to fall apart like that. I'm very sorry to have put you in that position." She bowed her head.

"Couldn't you have waited to tell me this during homeroom?"

She cringed. Wished she could disappear. Wished _he _would disappear, this boy who was so kind and cruel in turn. "I didn't… it's just…"

"I only meant," said Yukimura after a moment, "that you shouldn't have felt it necessary to come all the way here so early in the morning. School doesn't start for a few hours."

Anna looked up through her hair, said softly, "Oh. I would have been awake anyway. I don't really sleep well anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he replied, and it occured to her that he had not apologized for what he'd said to her yesterday, back in the garden. But what did he have to apologize for? He'd been right on all counts. It wasn't his fault that she hated tennis, that she couldn't play to save her life.

But…

"You didn't have to be mean about it," she said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

Oh, God. What had she gotten herself into? "You didn't," she struggled, her courage already failing her, "you didn't have to be mean. Yesterday. What you said—you were right. But still…" She swallowed. "But still. You didn't have to be mean."

He was silent. It was a terrible silence, the sort that had hushed the crowds when she'd been serving from break point down, knowing that she had no chance, that it would have been in her best interest to give up, just stop, give up, it's over.

Love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty.

Break point. That was Yukimura's silence.

And just like when she'd been down a break point, Anna could not breathe. Could not think. Could only stand there and wish she were somewhere, anywhere else, please somebody help her, oh God, she couldn't take it anymore.

But the silence ended when a locker inside the clubhouse slammed, and a sleepy voice called out, "Yukimura-buchou, how many laps are we doing today?"

Without looking away from Anna, Yukimura responded, "Ask Sanada. He's in charge of practice this morning." He reached behind him, grabbed something off a hook. His jacket. Instead of settling it over his shoulders, as she'd seen in the championship photos, he pulled it on, zipped it halfway.

"You're here to run, aren't you, Hasegawa-san?" he inquired lightly, gesturing to her attire. "Let's run."

He took off before she could reply. She had to hasten to catch up, but soon matched him stride for stride, their breath white in the morning air. People turned to watch as they passed. They ran along the paths that crossed the campus, the branches above them bright with delicate green leaves and pink buds.

There was a rhythm to the run, the pace faster than Anna would have chosen, but it felt good to push herself a little, to feel the familiar strain in her legs. In the space right before overexertion, she found peace.

Peace similar to the calm that had come over her as she'd gotten used to Yukimura's hand on hers, his chest against her back, his breath stirring her hair. He'd guided her through that forehand, steadied her, reminded her that it was easy and that it was natural and that once she had been _good _at it.

He'd settled her, soothed her. If only he had not driven her to such a state of distress in the first place.

By some unspoken agreement, they began to slow, decelerating until at last they were walking. "Hasegawa-san," said Yukimura evenly, as if they hadn't just run for ten minutes, "yesterday you made me lose my temper. It's inexcusable, but perhaps not unreasonable. You _did _tell me you hate me."

"I do hate you," said Anna softly.

"Well." He cut her a glance. "Thank you for that."

"It's just." She hugged her arms to her chest. "It's more the idea of you than anything. I gave up everything for tennis. Everything. But you… you got to stay at home, to go to school, to be with your friends. You have a _team_. That's just—that's inconceivable to me. You know?

"The idea that some people, that _you_, can have everything. I gave all I had, and I got nothing." Her voice cracked. "But you? You can finish high school, go on to win all the Majors. You can do everything I couldn't.

"So it's just not… fair," she finished haltingly. "But that's not your fault. That's just me feeling sorry for myself."

Yukimura was silent. It wasn't the break point silence from before, the one that made her want to curl up in a ball and never stand up again. But it was a heavy one all the same, one that said he hadn't anything to contradict. She'd summed it up: he was a success and she a failure.

That was all there was to it.

This time Yukimura broke the silence himself. "The feeling isn't mutual, you know. I don't hate you."

_What about the other way I feel about you? _she wanted to ask. _I adore you. Adore the boy I met ten years ago, and adore the way you play tennis. Adore you for being the champion I should have been._

But did she adore _him_, as he was now? Not the boy she'd known, or the champion. The boy walking beside her right now, the boy who could devastate her with words and with silence. The boy who'd comdemned her in a rooftop garden and who'd lifted her up off a tennis court.

Anna didn't know if she adored that boy. She did not _know _that boy.

"Well," she said, and swallowed. "That's… that's good, I guess."

"I would say so," he replied, with just a touch of wryness. Then it was gone. "Hasegawa-san," he said. "I think you should quit tennis. Really and truly quit."

She said, "Oh." Managed a smile. It flickered like satellite reception in a storm. "I mean… you're right. I do hate tennis."

"… It's not that." Something in his expression wavered, a ripple passing over water. "Don't quit because you hate it." He looked her in the face, said simply, "Quit because you have no chance of winning."

_Just quit, Anna, just stop, give up, love-fifteen, love-thirty, you've been here before, you know what comes next. It's over. It has to be over._

_I'm not ready for it to be over._

"You," she said. Couldn't keep smiling. How did he manage it all the time? "Are you _sure _you don't hate me? Because sometimes it really seems like you do."

"I don't hate you," he replied levelly, "and I don't mean to upset you. But you must know that you're not getting anywhere by playing tennis. It's only harming you. It's only making you miserable. As you said, you're not getting anything out of it."

"I know that," she said quietly. "You think I don't _know _that? I've tried to quit practically every day of my life. I've _retired_, and still I'm stuck, still I can't stop. I'm _afraid _to." She laughed. The hollow sound hung in the morning air. "I play tennis because I'm afraid not to. So?" She spread her arms.

"You're the one with all the answers, Yukimura-san. What exactly do you recommend I do?"

He tilted his head. He may have been angry; she could not tell. His eyes were bright, but not with anything she could identify. They were beauty without meaning, without anything she could relate to or grasp. Like trying to hold water, only to have it slip through your fingers.

He said, "Play better tennis."

~x~

Anna did not speak to him during homeroom, or any of their classes. She avoided the rooftop garden during lunch. She couldn't bear to hear his voice; his words already rang endlessly in her head.

_Don't quit, _he'd said, so sure and regal, with a smile that could charm the sun from the sky. _Play with me._

_Quit tennis, _he'd said, looking at her so steadily, so confident that he was offering her the truth on a silver platter, showing her some door of light she never could have found on her own. _You have no chance of winning._

And finally: _Play better tennis._

As if it were that easy. As if she hadn't already tried.

Time and time again she had tried, at this tournament and that, in the United States and France and Canada and Australia. Malaysia, England, China. You wake up in Asia. You wake up in Europe. You wake up in North America.

You wake up as the same person. Your tennis remains the same.

And yet.

She didn't let herself get pulled toward the tennis courts when school let out, instead went straight home. "Mom," said Anna, letting her bag fall to the living room floor. "Mom. Can we paint my room today? Please?"

"Today?" Her mother's eyebrows drew together. "I already bought the paint, but we'd be up all night working on it, Anna. Are you sure you…"

She took in her daughter's expression. She said, "All right."

The sky was pitch-black by the time they finished. Only the streetlights filtered in through Anna's window. The room was much darker now that the walls were no longer white, but with her lamp on she could see the color, the warm red-brown. Safe and soft. Solid and forgiving.

She left the lamp on only long enough for her to complete the girls' tennis team registration papers. Then, she went to bed for the precious few hours she had left, falling asleep quicker than she had before. As she drifted from consciousness, her last thoughts were,

_This has to be the end._

_If it's not the end, then what? What now?_

* * *

Not sure how long I can keep up this update pace. (Read as: not long at all, my friends. Not long at all.)

But all of your fantastic reviews have gotten me this far! Thank you everyone for your kind words. (Those high expectations, though. Seriously, you've got to get rid of those. Seriously.)

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis_, or Kelly Clarkson's "The Sun Will Rise" (lyrics at the top).


	4. Just Tell Me How I Got This Far

Author's Note: So having my icon as the "book cover" is kinda bugging me. Dunno what image to use, though…

* * *

**Break Point**

_(__Just tell me _

_Why you're here_

_And who you are)_

"_Awesome_," said Miyamoto when Anna turned in her registration papers the next afternoon. Her green eyes lit, she assured the taller girl, "This is going to work out fantastically. You won't regret this, Hasegawa."

But Anna already did. Her hands were slick with sweat, her stomach tied in tight, painful knots._ What am I thinking? I can't do this, can't play anymore. I can't. That's why I retired, why I came back to Japan. This is crazy. I'm crazy. What possessed me to do this?_

Damn that Yukimura Seiichi.

She would have liked to pin all the blame on him, but knew she couldn't. The truth was that, retired or not, successful or not, she was a tennis player. Even if she hadn't a chance, even if she hated every minute of it… on a tennis court, at least she knew where she stood. At least she knew the rules.

At least she knew what she _should _do, even if she couldn't actually accomplish it.

Anna swallowed, said, "Thank you for having me. Please treat me kindly." Inwardly she begged, _Turn me away, please turn me away, oh God, somebody, don't let me go through with this._

"Otsuka Rina, our vice-captain, will be supervising you." Miyamoto threw an arm in the air, waved. "Rina! Hey, Rina. Come over here."

Though petite, Otsuka carried herself as if quite tall. Her shoulders were back, her chin up, her steps measured. Like Yukimura, she moved with enormous grace, but hers was practiced and polished where his was unstudied and artful. She was in class 3-C with them.

"Hello," said the brunette crisply. "Welcome to the team, Hasegawa. This way."

She led Anna into the clubhouse, assigned her a locker, got her two sets of uniforms, and left her there to change. When the dark-haired girl emerged, Otsuka assigned her twenty-five laps around the courts. By this time everyone else had finished theirs, and they watched as she ran.

Running was simple, though. She wasn't competing against anyone, didn't have to hear an umpire announce her losing score for the world to hear. She finished the laps without breaking a sweat.

But next? Next Otsuka had her join the legions of first-years on the grass. "Practice your strokes. Two hundred forehands, two hundred backhands. I'll be by periodically to critique your form."

Anna stared at her. Practice her strokes? Have her form critiqued? Her forehand had been hailed as one of the best in the game, with the potential of becoming _the _best.

Otsuka noticed her incredulity, smiled thinly. "This is standard for those who haven't had any experience on the high school circuit." She lifted a shoulder. "We've never had any reason to take the professional tour into account.

"The point is this: don't expect to be treated any differently because of who you used to be. You'll have to work your way up through the ranks, Hasegawa. If you don't like it, you can submit your resignation forms at any time."

_You want me to quit, _thought Anna. _Well, so do I. And I am a quitter. _She looked down at her racquet, smiled a small, rueful smile. _Just not when it's in my own best interest. I'm not smart enough to quit when I've not yet anything to lose. Only when I've already lost it all._

She said, "Yes, fukubuchou."

~x~

When Anna got back to the apartment, she found her father at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. "Welcome home, stranger," he said. He'd been working late to get acclimated to his new position, so they had not seen much of each other since moving to Japan.

Not that they had seen much of each other when she'd been on the pro circuit, either. Or even before that, when she'd dormed at the academy.

"I'm home, Dad." She set her bag down. "Is everything all right? Normally you're not home for hours yet."

He smiled, the skin of his face crinkling like thin paper. When had he gotten old? "It's a nice Friday night. I thought we could all go out to eat together."

"There's that Indian place downtown," added Anna's mother, coming out of the master bedroom as she put in her second earring. "You do still like Indian food, don't you?"

Anna swallowed. They were both here. She might as well tell them, just get it over with. "Yeah," she said, "yeah, I do. But it's just… you should know… today. Today I, well. I turned in—um."

She was choking on the words, choking like she'd choked during the most crucial moments of matches. She recalled watching a replay of one on TV, hearing a commentator note exasperatedly, _And Hasegawa self-destructs once again. Who didn't see this coming?_

Her parents shared a speaking look. "What is it, baby?" her mother asked. "What's wrong?"

Anna prayed that she would not throw up all over the new carpet. "I. I joined… tennis. The tennis team. I joined the tennis team."

"Oh, _Anna_." Her mother stared at her, aghast; her father's face went stony. "Honey, why would you do that? You said you were done with tennis, remember? You said you never wanted to play again. That you couldn't take it anymore."

"And I can't." Her voice cracked. "But I have to try. You know? I can't—I can't not try. Can't not play. I thought I could, but," she smiled, "I can't. I can't."

She couldn't play. She couldn't _not _play. It was awful and it was pointless. It made no sense. But she _had _to play, even if she couldn't really, even if she was no good. Even if no one understood.

Her parents, by their expressions, did not.

She couldn't blame them.

~x~

"Yukimura-kun," Ishii-sensei trilled on Monday morning, "Yukimura-kun, come here a moment, won't you?"

Yukimura passed Hasegawa on his way to the teacher's desk. She was reading _Through the Looking-Glass_, and her long dark hair was down, veiling her face. She did not look up at him.

"Yes, sensei?" Ishii-sensei was the youngest teacher in the school. He could not help but be wary of her; she took a particular interest in the students' lives, most likely because she still identified with them more than with her older, more staid colleagues.

But more than that, Yukimura suspected, she liked to toy with people.

Ishii-sensei laced her fingers together, resting her chin on the bridge they created. "How are you doing, Yukimura-kun?"

"Well, thank you."

"And your sister? Lovely girl."

_She's doing lovely, _Yukimura almost said. "She's also doing well."

"How about tennis? Have your sights set on another National championship?"

"Sensei," he said pleasantly, "forgive me, but I'm not quite sure what it is you want of me."

"Well," she said, and smiled. "To be terribly frank, I was hoping you'd be a dear and look after Hasegawa Anna for me. Would that be too much to ask? Just look at the poor thing. She breaks my heart. Doesn't she break your heart?"

Yukimura glanced at the girl in question. "She does seem sad," he allowed, "but sensei, I don't think that—"

"You're such a good role model for the other students," said Ishii-sensei, as if he had not spoken. "They all look up to you. And you and Hasegawa-kun have so much in common, being tennis players and all. She's gone ahead and joined our team, did you know that? I suggested it to her."

Yukimura smiled a sunny smile. "That was very astute of you." His sarcasm came across: Ishii-sensei was no fool. "But Otsuka is the girls' vice-captain. She could guide Hasegawa-san much better than I could."

"Oh, but Otsuka-kun's so _prim_," said Ishii-sensei confidingly. "Not that she isn't a dear. But you, Yukimura-kun, you're just such a wonderfully charming boy. Aren't you?" As if she were talking to a dog.

He kept his smile in place. If it sharpened slightly… well, how was he to help it? "You're too kind, sensei."

"I'm not _telling _you to do anything, of course," she said amiably. "Just making a suggestion. Do think about it, won't you? Go on and take your seat again, Yukimura-kun. Have a good day."

"You too, sensei."

He did not actually think about what she'd said, not until French class. Hasegawa had only been at Rikkaidai a week, and already everyone knew that she struggled with the language. It ran the risk of bumping her down to 3-D. When the teacher assigned bookwork, adding that they could do it in pairs, the girl beside Yukimura turned to him, smiling hopefully. "Would you be my partner, Yukimura-kun?"

He glanced across the room to where Hasegawa sat staring at her textbook with a tremendously lost expression. Her lips moved, sounding out the words, though she could just as easily have been berating herself, the way she had at the tennis club.

He recalled her voice, soft and wild and despairing, recalled her saying _this is pathetic, Anna, God, you're so pathetic._

"I'm sorry," said Yukimura to the girl, "but I've already promised to work with Hasegawa-san."

He took his things and went over to her, pulling up an empty desk. For a moment, she looked at him with open surprise. Then, she turned her head. "Ishii-sensei asked you to do this." Her voice was muffled by her hair, by her shoulder. "To look out for me or something. That's what you two were talking about."

She'd put that together rather quickly. "Yes," he agreed. "But that's not why I'm here."

Slowly, she faced him once more. She had thoughtful, expressive eyes. He remembered them from his childhood. Remembered them from when ESPN's cameras would go in for a close-up of her face as she served. "Then you're here because you feel bad for me. Aren't you?"

Where Ishii-sensei had spoken as if to a dog, Hasegawa spoke with resignation.

"Yes," he admitted. "Partly." He'd never had the patience to mince words, had told her the truth so far in their relationship. (Except for once, long ago. But that was not a memory he liked to dwell on.) Why stop now? "Are you going to tell me you don't need my pity?"

She smiled. "I don't want your pity," she told him quietly, "don't want to need or deserve it. But the sad fact of the matter is…" She shrugged. The sad fact of the matter went unspoken: that she _did _need and deserve pity. His pity.

When he did not immediately respond, she held his gaze for a moment, then glanced away. "You said 'partly.' That that's partly the reason why you came over here. What's the other part?"

He smiled. Her smile had come and gone like the sickle-moon, but his stayed, drawing out another one of hers, making it rise up as if from the depths of water. "The other part," he told her lightly, "is that you speak terrible French."

Her smile broke the surface. Even remained for a while. Just a little while. "Well," she said, ducking her head. "Well. Yes."

~x~

"Do you see?" demanded Otsuka of Miyamoto. She gestured to the people crowding the courts. Some were reporters. Some were simply drawn like spectators to a trainwreck. "Do you see what you and your ideas have done?"

"Gotten us publicity?" suggested the captain. Her broad grin clashed with her mild tone.

"_Bad _publicity. She's doing terribly. Look at her." As if on cue, Hasegawa set herself up for a spectacular forehand—and launched it right into the net. She flinched as if she'd been the one hit by the ball. "What will people think?"

"That we took her in while she was at rock-bottom, and built her back up into a superstar."

Otsuka snorted, then frowned, as she always did when she caught herself doing something unladylike. "This is a championship-winning team, not a rehab center for burned-out athletes."

"Could have fooled me," drawled a voice that could only have been Niou Masaharu's.

Otsuka turned her back on the approaching boys' team, continued pointedly, "And how do you plan to build her back up into a superstar, anyway? Hold her hand and tell her to listen to her heart? That all she needs is love? Because God knows a full week of practice hasn't gotten her anywhere."

It was Friday afternoon. They'd begun the round-robin ranking tournament on Wednesday, and these last matches would determine the regulars. The results thus far had been predicatable, so long as you were not betting on the only former pro in the field.

Miyamoto's grin vanished. "Hasegawa Anna was born to play tennis," she said plainly. "She's about to lose this match, but she'll still have ranked eighth. She'll be a reserve. The ace up our sleeve. That's what I want, and that's what will happen."

Then she walked away, calling for the first-years to take down the nets on the empty courts.

"You just got _told_," Marui remarked. He and the other seven regulars had assembled along the fence: the Big Three together, Yagyuu, Marui, and Jackal surrouding them, Niou to the side, Kirihara moving around.

"Oh, shut up," said Otsuka crossly. "Shouldn't you guys be defending your regular status right about now?"

"Already did." Kirihara brushed a finger under his nose. All eight boys were watching Hasegawa's match with varying degrees of interest. Their sharp, calculating air was as uniform as their jerseys, but their individual reactions could be detected in the droop of Marui's eyelids, the furrow of Kirihara's brows, the tug at one corner of Niou's mouth.

"So Hasegawa will be taking Tamura's spot, then?" inquired Yanagi. Only his expression betrayed nothing of what he thought or felt. Yagyuu's look of polite detachment was a close second in terms of impassivity.

"Apparently," Otsuka muttered. Inwardly she scolded herself: it did not do to be rude to these boys, despite how placid some may appear.

"Ah, yes." A man holding a notebook broke away from the adults he'd been standing with, approached the group of yellow-clad teenagers. Inoue Mamoru from _Pro Tennis Monthly_. "Otsuka-kun, I was hoping to get a comment from you on Tamura-kun's acceptance of the Hyotei tennis scholarship."

Otsuka thought, _That backstabbing bitch. _She said tightly, "The scholarship was awarded in recognition of her skill."

"I see. Thank you." He didn't even bother to write it down, instead turned to Yukimura. "And you, Yukimura-kun? What do you think of having a former French Open semifinalist at your school?"

"Hmm?" Yukimura slid his gaze away from Hasegawa's match. "I think she's a credit to our school and to our athletic program."

Inoue scribbled that down. "Bet you're wishing she could have joined _your _team, huh?" he asked knowingly.

Yukimura only smiled. "That's all right. I wouldn't want to take her away from Miyamoto and Otsuka."

_Yeah, I'll bet you wouldn't, _thought Otsuka, just as the score of Hasegawa's match was called. The dark-haired girl had lost in straight sets.

~x~

"Are you all right, Hasegawa-san?"

Anna almost let out a wail. Of course Yukimura would find her like this. Of course. "Yeah. Yes. I just." She curled in tighter on herself. "When I get—upset, so does my stomach. But I'm fine. Thank you, Yukimura-san."

She sat against the fence surrounding the girls' tennis courts, her arms around her knees and her head tucked low. Everyone else had long since gone home.

But everyone else hadn't lost to a bunch of girls they should have beaten.

Yukimura said, "Give me a moment," and went back the way he'd come, toward the boys' courts. She should have fled before he returned, but she feared she would vomit if she stood up.

Behold, the glamorous life of a professional athlete.

_Ex-pro, _she reminded herself, _no longer, no more, it's over, it's done, why can't I just let it go, just move on, move your feet, come on, you're getting crushed out there, for the love of God, Anna, you've got to do something, don't just stand there and take it, come on, love-fifteen love-thirty love-forty—_

Yukimura reappeared. "I only had to ask someone else to walk my sister home, that's all." He sat down beside her, though a good two or three feet separated them.

Quietly, Anna asked, "Why?"

"So that she doesn't get assaulted, that's why."

"Yukimura-san." Under different circumstances, she might have rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant."

"Why am I here with you?" He leaned back against his hands. His face was tilted toward the sky, the sun hanging low like an orange on a tree branch. "I don't know."

"Oh." So it hadn't anything to do with Ishii-sensei, or with… well, with anything. Today closed out her first two weeks at Rikkaidai, in which time Yukimura had been the person she'd talked most to. The only person she'd had any meaningful interaction with. So she'd been hoping…

_Nothing, _she told herself firmly. She hadn't been hoping anything. Certainly not that he cared.

Yukimura did not try to fill the silence, did not offer any assurances or empty words, but his presence was a comfort nevertheless. He knew that, she suspected, knew the effect he had on her. Knew the effect he had on the whole world.

Here at Rikkaidai, and apparently all over the country, they called him the Child of God.

It seemed a little silly. The melodrama of the title took away from the real, tangible things, the things she liked best about him. His eyes and his smile, his grace and his quiet clear voice. The way he looked and moved and sounded… it was all lovely. He was lovely.

But was he a lovely _person_?

"My parents think I'm crazy," she told him, for, lovely person or not, she had no one else to tell. "For putting myself through all this again. They don't understand that—it's just—they just don't get why—"

"Tennis," he said simply. He looked at her, and where before she'd seen nothing familiar in those stained glass blue eyes, now there was… something. Something she still didn't quite recognize, but knew was precious. "They don't understand tennis. Not like you do. Not like I do."

_Not like you do. Not like I do._

Empathy. That was what it was.

Her breath caught. "I… I… tennis. Tennis, yes. They don't. I. You…" Oh, God. How stupid could she sound? "Tennis," she tried again. "Yes. We. Uh." His expression, she noticed, was too straight, too smooth. "You're laughing at me," she accused. "Aren't you?"

"I would never, Hasegawa-san." But his voice was too innocent. Bright laughter lurked beneath, as if too secret and valuable to be out in the open.

Anna fought down a blush. "Well…" She grimaced, rubbed her face. "I just. I don't know what to do. I've joined the team. I'm trying so, _so_ hard just to play a fraction as well as I once did. A _fraction. _And still I fall apart everytime it counts. I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to _do_?"

Eyeing him, she added, "If you tell me to play better tennis, I'll… I don't know exactly what I'll do, but I'll be unhappy."

"Duly noted," he said solemnly. A moment passed, and then: "Bounce, hit, wrap. You need to start from the beginning again. Go back to the basics, review the fundamentals. If you can't fix your game, build a new one. I realize that your actual physical playing isn't the issue, but…"

But in tennis, the physical and the mental went hand-in-hand. If she had faith in her game, perhaps she could find faith in herself.

When _had _she lost her faith? When she'd started losing? Or had she started losing because she'd lost faith?

It wasn't something she liked dwelling on. Even as lost as she'd been at Rikkaidai so far, it could not compare to the emotional trainwreck she'd become on the tour. She felt those sick feelings welling up in her again, the misery, the anxiety, the nausea that had left her shaking and dry-heaving before a big match.

Sweat trickled down from her hairline. She curled up in a ball once more, tried to make herself breathe, breathe, in and out, just breathe, just keep breathing, it'll be all right, please, please, it has to be all right.

"Hasegawa-san, what's the matter?"

Anna just pressed her face into her knees. Wished he would go away, leave her alone, she needed to be _alone_—

"Hasegawa-san." His voice was faintly disapproving and fully imperious. "Look at me."

He'd said it like he'd said _Again_ at the tennis club, in a do-this-and-do-it-now sort of way that should have been stifling, should have rubbed her the wrong way, but instead reassured her. She knew what to do, knew that it would turn out all right. Because he'd told her to do it.

She looked at him.

He was looking back at her, his gaze steady, his mouth set in a straight line. Anna coveted his composure, his self-possession. His calm. She wanted to steal it, use it, keep it for herself. But he was sharing it with her right now, letting her draw on it as she had before.

And it occurred to her…

_If we were friends. If you were mine. If I had you with me… things would be all right. You'd be with me, so it'd be all right._

"There." His voice softened slightly. A reward for her obedience. "Now say something."

She swallowed. Asked, "Yukimura-san… Yukimura-san, will you help me play tennis again?"

* * *

And then he was like sure no problem, and then they made out. The end.

Thank you for the reviews! Can't reply to the anonymous ones, of course, but appreciate them just the same. Is there anywhere in particular you guys want to see this story go? (TO THE MOON. Moon tennis. WHAT.)

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis_, or Michelle Branch's "Everywhere" (lyrics at the top).


	5. I Know Just What She's Looking For

Author's Note: Guess who updates super fast? This kid. Guess who probably should have edited this chapter more? Go on, guess.

* * *

**Break Point**

_(Please can you tell me_

_So I can finally see_

_Where you go when you're gone)_

Yukimura stared at her, this girl who wanted him to fix her game. Didn't she ever learn? Just as she had pinned all her blame on him, so too was she now pinning her hopes.

"Hasegawa-san." He shook his head slowly. "I don't think you really—"

"Please." Her gaze was intent and terribly, terribly earnest. "I know I've been too much of a burden on you already, Yukimura-san. But please. I'll repay you however I can. Just… please. Help me."

A minute ago she'd gone pale with distress, but now high color flushed her cheeks. She just kept _looking _at him, waiting, wishing, and for some reason he felt… umcomfortable. That discomfort, so irregularly felt, brought irritation.

"I don't exactly have a lot of time on my hands, Hasegawa-san. I have my own team to prepare."

She said nothing. Her eyes did not stray from his face.

For a moment, he could only sit there, biting down on the inside of his cheek. _Stop looking at me like that, _he wanted to snap at her. _You are not my responsibility. I don't owe you anything. Stop boxing me into corners where I have no choice but to hurt you. You _ask _to get hurt. There's a reason you are the way you are._

_A reason you're broken._

Then, with a small smile, he stood. His smile was not a mask, not like that insipid Fuji Syuusuke's. His smiles were tools: they served a purpose. In this case, to soften the truth. He could be honest without being brutal.

"Tennis isn't something that someone else can fix for you, Hasegawa-san." He spoke almost gently, for which she should have been grateful. Another person in his position, like Niou or Sanada, would not spare a thought for her feelings. "You should know that by now. That you haven't grasped it explains why you're struggling so. I can't help you."

He expected her to blush, to cringe, to mumble excuses or apologies. Instead she raised her eyebrows. Asked quietly, "Can't or won't?"

Yukimura blinked once.

_Can't or won't? _She truly had the nerve to ask him that? The gentle approach, it seemed, was not working.

He tilted his head. He was still smiling, but this smile was of a totally different nature.

"Can't," he said lightly, "for reasons I've already made clear. But since you've asked, no, I won't help you." He looked her up and down once, appraisingly. "I don't like to waste my time on endeavors that are doomed to fail."

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. She had a unique ability, Hasegawa did, to make him lose his temper. Regardless, the damage was done.

She pushed up off the ground, stood facing him. Her hands were fists, though she looked more likely to cry than to hit him. Her face had hardened, but her voice was soft when she said, "You know what? Fuck you."

Then she stalked away.

For the first time in a long time, Yukimura Seiichi did not get the last word in.

~x~

"I'm home," he said twenty minutes later, closing the door behind him and taking his shoes off.

His little sister stuck her head out of the kitchen. Instead of welcoming him home, she asked, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Why did Niou-senpai have to walk me home? What were you doing?"

He brushed by her on his way to the living room. "Believe me, nothing important." Then he exhaled, turning back around. His sister's face had gone perfectly smooth, which was meant to conceal her hurt but only highlighted it to those who knew her.

"Sayoko." He reached out and smoothed her long brown hair. Trying not to be irritated by her sensitivity, he went on, "I've just had a long day. I'm not angry with you. All right?"

He was angry with himself and with Hasegawa. As to which of them he was _most_ angry with… that was still anyone's game.

"Fine," she said stiffly. "Whatever." And then: "Were you with—what's her name? Hasegawa Anna?"

"… Why?"

Sayoko shrugged. "I just keep hearing rumors about you spending a lot of time with her. Is that true?"

"Ah," he said. "Yes, for once the rumors actually are true." He _had _been spending a considerable amount of time with Hasegawa, though that trend would soon end. He started toward the living room again. "Are Mom and Dad home? I didn't see a car."

"Dad's working late and Mom's visiting Aunt Miyako," she reported, trailing after him. "She's on TV, you know."

He stopped. "Mom is? Or Aunt Miyako?"

She smiled a little. "Hasegawa Anna. The Tennis Channel is rebroadcasting last year's French Open as a leadup to this year's clay court season. Or so the announcer guy assured me."

He had to turn the TV back to the Tennis Channel—Sayoko had switched to the news—but sure enough there was Hasegawa, up three-two in the second set. She was playing the fifth seed, a German woman who had won a Major. It was the quarterfinals.

Though less than a year had passed, Hasegawa looked younger. Her hair was up in a high ponytail, and she wore a purple dress. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed, her feet always moving, moving, moving. She'd lost the first set, but would take the next two, emerging the victor.

He sat down on the sofa, folding his arms over his chest. Sayoko sat beside him, reading a thick nonfiction book. Onscreen Hasegawa slid from side to side, battering her opponent with ferocious topspin.

But her serve.

Her serve was what was truly incredible. She paid absolutely no heed to her opponent, did not utilize any strategies or tricks. She could have been playing anyone. She could have been playing a wall. She just served, tossing the ball up and bringing it down, generating such fantastic speed, such easy power.

Her serve was beautiful. Her serve was faultless.

Yukimura did not know if he could beat that girl. Not without using the yips.

But the girl on TV no longer existed. That Hasegawa Anna had been replaced by one far older and far more fragile. A girl who'd fallen apart too many times to fit back together. And, watching this match, watching her when she'd been at her best…

He realized what a shame that was.

And he would admit, privately, that her desperation for his assistance assuaged his ego. This girl had been _good_. Had had real talent. And if she could find it again, she'd make an excellent practice partner. Someone against whom he could test his limits.

Someone who could prepare him for when _he _went pro.

_Can't or won't? _she'd asked. He'd taken it as disrespect and ingratitude, but she probably hadn't meant to sound insolent. Had probably meant the question simply as it was:

_Can't or won't?_

"Oniisan?" Sayoko peered at him, meeting his blue eyes with her own. "Oniisan, are you all right? You look… I don't know. Not all right."

He smiled for her. "I'm all right. I only…" He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "I only may have made a mistake, that's all."

She raised her eyebrows. "_You? _Made a mistake?"

His sister very rarely teased him, so he could not tell whether she was being sarcastic or sincere. He smacked her lightly just to be safe.

~x~

Anna's golf ball went sailing into the trees, knocking down leaves and branches. She winced. "Sorry, Daddy."

"That's all right." He sounded equally weary and amused. "Let's try again. Okay? Line up your shot… bend your knees… watch the ball… and swing."

She swung. The ball went nowhere, but a hunk of grass got a good bit of air-time. She yanked her sun visor down low over her eyes, groaning, "I suck. Oh, my God, I _suck_."

"No, you don't." At the look on her face, he amended, "Well, you do a little. Suck, that is."

They both smiled. He'd never used "suck" like that before.

It was Saturday morning, and they were at a country club midway between Rikkaidai and Tokyo. The golf course had rolling hills and clear creeks, the colors incredibly rich, as if part of a Crayola advertisement. Anna wore a windbreaker and silly plaid shorts, and was actually… having a pretty good time.

When her father had asked if she wanted to go golfing with him, she'd been miserable after a sleepless night spent agonizing over what she'd said to Yukimura. She'd never been so rude, had never said anything like that to anyone before. Never.

He just made her so _angry_.

Stupid Yukimura. Stupid Yukimura with his bright, mean smile and bright, mean voice. Mean, mean words. He'd never help her now. And, depending on how insulted he was, he could probably turn the whole school against her if he chose to.

_Hey Dad, _she thought about saying, _I know I've already made you and Mom pick up your lives and move with me twice already, but I may or may not be set upon by a pitchfork-wielding mob. How do you feel about starting fresh in, say, Canada?_

She had to laugh or else she'd cry.

They moved on to the next hole, really only talking when he corrected her form and she apologized for giving new meaning to the phrase "mind-blowingly terrible." Neither of them was hugely talkative, and it didn't help that she'd only seen him periodically since she was eight. At the academy she'd lived in the dorms, and he hadn't been able to travel on the tour with her because of his job.

But that didn't matter overly much right now, because the sun was warm and the air crisp, the country club busy but not overcrowded. It was a nice way to spend a Saturday morning.

Too bad she had to go to afternoon tennis practice.

Once they'd finished, her father assuring her that she'd "gotten… better," she put on her tennis uniform in the ladies' locker room. She actually liked the yellow, thought it looked nice with her dark coloring. At least it was better than plaid.

Her father was waiting for her in the parking lot, and on the way there she passed the tennis courts. On the golf course she'd gotten some lingering looks, but no one had truly seemed to recognize her. That was, she supposed, a benefit of not being physically striking, save for her height.

But here people were already nudging one another, murmuring. She'd once been the Japanese tennis scene's best hope.

Now she was their greatest embarrassment.

Yet even as she ducked her head and quickened her pace, she couldn't help but advise a little girl trying to serve. "Stand with your feet farther apart," she murmured through the chain-link fence.

The girl turned, blinked up at her. "Okay." She tilted her head. "Hey, Oneechan, aren't you—"

Anna hurried away.

~x~

When Anna's father pulled up in front of Rikkaidai, he let the engine idle. She thought, _Oh, no. _"Anna," he began, speaking slowly, "your mother and I have always supported your tennis. We've seen for years the toll it's taken on you, but we still thought you should end it on your own terms."

"I know, Dad, and thank you for that, really, I just—"

"And we'll let you continue it on your own terms," he continued. "You're a smart, responsible girl. You're not even eighteen and you've already had a career. If you honestly think it will make you happier…" He sighed. "Play tennis, Anna."

_Play tennis, Anna. _Would it make her happier? She didn't actually think that, didn't actually know. Only knew that she had to. "Thanks, Daddy," she whispered. She grabbed her bag, opened the car door.

"But be advised," he went on, smiling ever so slightly, "that Rikkaidai _does _have a golf team. I'm sure they'd be happy to have you."

"Um," she said. "Maybe as the girl who fishes all the golf balls out of the pond."

They smiled at each other, and then he drove off to put in a couple hours at the office. Anna hefted her bag and jogged across campus to the girls' courts, arriving just in time to join in the laps. She ran at the same pace as the other regulars, careful not to pull ahead.

Once the last panting girl had finished, Otsuka began, "All right, today we'll start off by—"

"Actually," Miyamoto said lightly, "we're practicing with the boys today. Surprise."

All at once, the girls started giggling and whispering. Otsuka rounded on the captain. "What? We _never _practice with the boys. What's going on? If you lost another bet…"

Miyamoto inspected a strand of her blue-black hair for split ends. "It's no big deal, Rina. Just time for a change of pace, that's all." At Otsuka's look of scoffing disbelief, she said quietly, "Yukimura texted me yesterday to recommend it. What was I supposed to say?"

"'No' comes to mind."

"Because _that _would have turned out well for me. Be for real, Rina. And it _will _be good to play against them. You'll see."

"Fine," Otsuka muttered, tapping her foot. The two were speaking very lowly. Anna, standing nearby, was probably the only one who could hear them. "But why would he want this?"

Miyamoto blinked owlishly. "Take a wild guess." They both glanced sidelong at Anna, who was too dumbfounded to pretend she hadn't been listening. Oh, God. What if Yukimura really _was _assembling a mob to take her down? She still had tons of frequent flyer miles left. She could make it to Canada.

"Listen up, everybody," Miyamoto called. Everyone fell silent. "We're going over there to play tennis, not to flirt. If there's any breakdown in discipline, I'll see it. And if I don't, someone else will, and they'll report it to me. Consider yourselves living in the Soviet Union."

"The point she's trying to make," Otsuka said tartly, "is that if you act like a simpering idiot, you and your simpering idiot comrades will spend the rest of the day running suicides."

"I hadn't finished my KGB analogy," said Miyamoto mildly, "but that's all right. We're already late. Let's go, guys. Bring your things."

The boys were doing all manner of exercises when they arrived: running, stretching, hitting against ball-machines. Some paid not a whit of attention to the girls, while others eyed them. There was nothing appreciative in their glances. Instead they seemed to be asking, _Why the hell are you on our courts?_

One narrow look from tiny little Otsuka made them direct their attention elsewhere.

Miyamoto began breaking the girls up, sending them to different courts, different groups of boys—she and Yukimura must have already arranged this—but someone approached before Anna could hear her assignment. That person was a tall brown-haired boy whose name she knew to be Yanagi.

"This way, Hasegawa-san." His voice was gentle, his eyes seemingly closed. When she only stared at him uncertainly, he explained, "Yukimura is on court one. He'd like you to warm up with him."

"He's going to kill me, isn't he?"

… Had she asked that out loud? This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that she'd spoken out of turn. She'd always been a quiet person, always considered everything she said.

How could even the _thought _of Yukimura Seiichi have this effect on her?

Yanagi may have been amused or merely curious. "Why would he kill you?"

"No, no," said Anna hurriedly, blushing, "it's nothing, forget I said anything." Had Yukimura not told this boy about how she'd treated him? "It's just, I, ummmm…"

He dipped his chin. "I see. Follow me, please, Hasegawa-san." She threw an imploring look at Miyamoto, but received only a distracted _Go on, go on _handwave in response. Which meant she had no choice but to trail after Yanagi.

Boys watched as they walked past the row of courts, among them the redhaired boy named Marui. Anna had never spoken to him, but it was impossible to spend time at Rikkaidai and not learn all the male regulars' names. His inquisitive gaze was particularly sharp, though he was blowing a bright pink bubble.

Yukimura sat on the bench beside court one, rewrapping his racquet grip. Yanagi clasped his hands behind his back. "If it's any comfort," he murmured, "there's only a one percent chance of him ever even considering killing you. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty, you see. Not with blood, at least."

"… Oh," said Anna. "Well, that's… that's… thank you."

"Of course." He walked away.

Yukimura had not noticed her yet, so she took a moment to compose herself. If he'd orchestrated this entire practice just to get at her, he must have been _really _pissed off. _But I'm mad at him too, _she reminded herself. _I'm not the only one in the wrong._

Someone needed to tell _him _that. He looked up, did not smile. Only stood and motioned for her to step on the court.

Anna took a deep, deep breath, as if she were about to dive into water, and did as bid. _Just get it over with go on say it say it now. _"Yukimura-san, I'm sorry for what I said to you. It was absolutely inexcusable. I apologize." She bowed her head.

"Apology accepted. We'll warm up short." As in, short-court.

Was that it? His tone was even, his expression impassive. He hadn't said he'd forgiven her. _Maybe I don't want your forgiveness, _she thought sullenly, moving to the other side of the court.

But she did. Damn it all to hell, but she _wanted _him to forgive her, wanted him to be her friend, whether he was harsh or not, infuriating or not. She still needed him to help her. It _had _to be him. Maybe because he was so calm, so composed. Maybe because he made tennis beautiful.

Maybe because he was the boy from the beginning.

Yukimura's expression was neutral as he tossed the ball over the net. Standing only a few feet away, Anna blocked it back, and he tapped it over again. They continued like that, lightly trading volleys, before moving back to the service line, letting the ball bounce before they hit it.

"We did this exercise at the academy sometimes," she said quietly. These words she had thought about, chosen. They were a test of his mood. And of his memory. "I think you would have liked it there. If you'd…"

_If you'd kept your promise._

"Is that so," he replied. "Let's go back, Hasegawa-san." For a moment she thought he meant back in time, but he moved back toward the baseline. They began rallying in earnest, and Anna grew uneasy. It felt too much like a real match.

She could not read Yukimura's expression, but got the distinct impression that by standing across the net from him, she had become his opponent.

She started making mistakes, first hitting the ball wide, then not getting it over the net at all. Her pulse skyrocketed; her throat constricted. Love-fifteen. "Relax," said Yukimura. His tone may have been edged. It may not have been. "We're only warming up. Calm down."

"I can't." She caught the ball, fingered it like a touchstone. "Not when you're obviously still mad at me." He only raised his eyebrows fractionally, so she swallowed. Said, "I'm mad at you too. Just so you know." She cringed, waiting for his acid-sweet words, for his dagger-smile. Braced for them the way she would an oncoming wave of saltwater.

But he said, "Yes." His voice and expression were neutral. "Yes, I imagine you would be."

She blinked.

"Um. Okay, well. Well… good. I mean, not good, but…" She shook her head. "Yukimura-san, I just. You make it seem like everything I say or do is wrong. Play, don't play. Don't try to get better. Try."

"Try," he said. "Yesterday when you asked me 'can't or won't'… I may have spoken too soon." Now he spoke very reasonably, but she hadn't a clue what he was thinking. He didn't quite feel real to her, not now.

Yesterday he'd been a boy with empathy and a temper and stained glass blue eyes.

Now… his eyes truly seemed to be stained glass, so colorful as to let only light in and out. Bright, but divulging nothing. Beautiful, but offering not a glimpse of anything beyond. No understanding, no anger. Nothing but blue.

He went on, "I still don't know that I _can_… but I will help you. If you'd still like me to."

Anna did not know how to reply. How to feel. If this was a game, Yukimura made up the rules as he went along, and she did not yet know how to call a time-out.

She considered and discarded a number of responses. Everything seemed too silly, too sentimental. She struggled and struggled, said finally, "Thank you." She gestured helplessly, letting the tennis ball fall from her hand. "I mean it. Thank you, Yukimura-san."

"You're welcome." He tilted his head; the net was still between them. "Are you still angry at me?"

"Well." She looked down at her racquet, then back up at him. "No, I guess not. Are _you_ still mad at _me_?"

A muscle in his face jumped. "Perhaps not," he said slowly, "though I don't think it will be an exchange I'll forget very soon."

She recalled his look of shock and indignation. The way his eyebrows had lifted, his mouth had dropped open… It had been—God, she couldn't even—she bit down hard on her lower lip. Tried to keep a straight face. "Yeah," she managed. "Y-Yeah, probably… probably n-not…"

He frowned. "What is it?"

She couldn't take it anymore. Started giggling, then laughing in earnest, the laughter raw and a little rough, but warm. People turned to look. "Sorry," she said through the laughter, "sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, I just… I just…"

His expression. Oh, God, his expression had been priceless. Like a cat who'd just had a bucket of water dumped on him. She nearly doubled over. Instead she brought her racquet up to her face, tried to hide behind it. "Really, I'm sorry… Yukimura-san, I don't… I just…" She couldn't stop laughing. Couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed this hard.

A corner of his mouth tightened. He folded his arms over his chest. Seemed to waver on the brink of irritation.

But then he smiled.

He smiled, and that smile… she wanted to fold it up and tuck it in her pocket and take it out whenever she felt sad or lost or scared. Whenever she wanted to be happy.

"You do realize," he said, still smiling, "that your racquet has holes in it. I can clearly see your face."

His smile had knocked the wind out of her, so she could no longer laugh, but her shoulders still shook and her eyes still shone. She kept the racquet in front of her face.

He laughed a little himself. "Fine," he said, stepping over the net and walking toward her, "but you'll have to lower your racquet while we work on your swing. When you get tense you tuck your elbow into your body. Did you know that? It explains all the shots you netted."

They worked on her swing for a few minutes. Sometimes he stood back and critiqued, sometimes he guided her through it. Finally he sent her back to Miyamoto while he took over managing his team.

But occasionally she would glance over and catch his eye.

They would both smile.

* * *

Not gonna lie, Anna's golfing exploits mirror my own. Sorry I suck, Daddy.

Why are there so many things one must buy for college?

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis_, or Michelle Branch's "All You Wanted" (lyrics at the top).


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